


Family Matters Two: Soul Searching

by Su_Whisterfield



Series: Family Matters [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23092366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Su_Whisterfield/pseuds/Su_Whisterfield
Summary: Family Matters, the story so far..Mystique, Raven Darkholme, mutant terrorist, didn’t take it well when The Quiet Council of Krakoa refused to return her wife Irene to her. She murdered her son, Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler, not once but several times. He was brought back by The Krakoan resurrection protocols but the trauma of it has wounded him.Mystique aligned herself, by allowing herself to become possessed, with The Celtic goddess The Morrigan.Kurt and Krakoa managed to contain and imprison her, but not before she’d started a spell on Kurt’s body, a spell which, even though incomplete, is starting to take effect...Kurt’s best friend, Ororo Munroe, the mutant Storm goddess and Logan, James Howlett, the mutant killing machine known as The Wolverine, have taken him to the African nation of Wakanda to recover and recuperate.
Relationships: Logan (X-Men) & Kurt Wagner, Ororo Munroe & Kurt Wagner
Series: Family Matters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660774
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. The Changeling

Every society, across the world, shares the same story, of the baby snatched away and replaced with the fairy child, which looks like a human baby but is strange and different and alien.  
Wakanda has such a tale, of the mother who leaves her child under the acacia tree, when her mother-in-law tells her not to, and comes back to find a changeling in its place.  
The fable plays on parents’ fears that, though their son or daughter looks ‘normal’, the child is not and society’s fears of the different, the strange, of the breaking of conventions and the subverting of what society thinks is good and right.

Our Kurt is no fairy child, no changeling, but there can have been no doubt, from the moment he came into this world, that he was different. There was no ‘normal’ for him, right from the start.  
When I first met him, I thought he looked like a nightmare, a twisted mock human with deformed hands and feet, skin darker than any man I had ever met, with an animalistic layer of cobalt fur, features sharp, pointed like his ears. A tail, like an animal.  
And then he smiled at me, and he was bright and witty, charming and curious about everyone and everything. A young European circus artist, who wanted to be a hero. He certainly achieved that wish.

But his looks fulfilled every horror story, not just those told around the camp fire by our ancestors, the new horror, the modern changeling snatches the baby before it even reaches the cradle, in the womb. And instead of replacing it with a fairy, it’s replaced by a mutant.

He’s alway said he’s had a charmed life, how lucky he is, how blessed. This man who has been chased by mobs not once, or twice but many times. Who has been cursed, abused, beaten, shot, because of what he looks like. Lucky? Lucky because he’s also known love, and acceptance and kindness, from his adoptive family, his circus family and the X-Men.  
And self love. He’s secure in himself, self assured, open, kind.  
He is beautiful, one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever met.  
I was wrong on my first assessment, his body is beautiful too, he has the poise of a dancer, the strength of an athlete and the grace of a panther. He is uniquely, perfectly, himself.

And his mother, that lying, wicked woman did her best to destroy him.  
Once at birth, we don’t know the details, but it’s pretty obvious that babies do not end up in rivers by accident, then, more recently, she tried again when thwarted by The Quiet Council over Krakoa reincarnating her wife. 

She very, very nearly succeeded in her appalling goal.  
And, in her quest to destroy, she aligned herself with a new ally.  
Mystique, Raven, the mutant terrorist, shapechanger and assassin allowed herself to be possessed by a goddess, a goddess of death and battlefields, of crows and blood, The Morrigan.

But, Krakoa, the sentient island which is currently the home of Earths mutants, defeated her, with her son’s brave, selfless, help. She is now contained in stasis, within the Island.

And we, brought gentle Kurt here, to Wakanda, to recover from the mental and physical wounds she inflicted upon him.  
We being myself, Ororo the Wind Rider, former queen of Wakanda (and former wife of its ruler, T’Challa) and a proud mutant and, with me, his best friend, the mutant killing machine called Logan, The Wolverine.

****

Kurt healed remarkably fast, given how badly damaged he was. He had a lot of help, from Logan and myself, from healers on Krakoa and a psychiatrist in Wakanda.  
Also from just being here, feeling safe and secure. But mostly from his own resilience and strength.  
He will carry the scars, both mental and physical for the rest of his life.

T’Challa and his family have been immensely supportive. For providing us with a safe place to bring a very sick man to, for the first class psychiatrist who has helped him come to terms with the assault on his body and soul, and for their simple friendship to distract him (and us) from it all when everything felt bleak.  
T’Challa and I have a long and not always happy history, serendipitously, this has brought us closer together. He doesn’t like Logan, I doubt he ever will, but it’s impossible not to like Kurt, who can charm the birds from the trees (Shuri, T’Challa’s sister, and Ramonda, the Queen Mother are particularly enamoured) and I will forever be in Wakanda and T’Challa’s debt for this.

Kurt is not yet completely recovered.

Logan and I disagree on our next move.  
I think he, we, the three of us, should return to Krakoa.  
Logan does not.  
He’s the most pugnacious, irritating, stubborn person I’ve ever met.  
But he also cares, cares very deeply. About Kurt. About keeping him safe. He’s worried. He has every right to be. The complicated lines of scars on Kurt’s arm and chest glow in the moonlight. 

Hiding Kurt away from the world forever is not the answer though. He needs to go home to his friends, his family. He had a purpose on Krakoa, a life, before Mystique stole it away from him. He has the right to have it back. He also needs answers to what his mother did to him, answers he can’t get here, he’s spoken with Wakandan mystics, but the scars on his arms are a different kind of magic to Wakandan magic, they couldn’t help.

****  
The conversation goes something like this.

“You cannot simply lock him up in an ivory tower for all time.”  
”Just watch me.”  
”Don’t I get a say?”  
”Yes, of course, beloved”  
“No.”  
Around in circles, until Kurt gets upset. Then Logan is apologetic and the issue gets shelved again.  
Eventually I decide on another tack. I need Kurt not to get upset, but to get decisive and to tell Logan what he wants. 

So I bring in back-up.

Back-up comes in the shape of Kurt’s many friends.  
First to visit are two who we all trust implicitly, Peter and Kate.  
There are tears, a lot of tears, from all of us, watching Peter, big and strong and stable, enveloping Kurt in a bearhug is quite a sight. Kurt just relaxes into him, head on that massive chest, eyes closed, safe and secure.  
They stayed for two days.

Then it was Rachel and Meggan and lovely little Maggie, I didn’t think Ramonda, was going to give her back to Meggan when they went home.  
Of course, this was all good for Wakandan/Krakoan relations too.

When he waved them off, Kurt looked thoughtful. There’d been less tears with this visit, more laughter.

Rogue is next on my list. I have a whole Island I call on if necessary. And I will if I need to. 

But I don’t.  
Ramonda has an intriguing suggestion.  
Kurt and Logan have a conversation.  
A private one.  
And, simple as that, we are going back to Krakoa.

When you are young, love is all about sex and heat and passion.  
As you get older, you realise that it’s also about support and caring and the other person’s happiness being more important than your own.

All it took was for Kurt to decide what he wanted to do, that he wanted to go back. I don’t think Logan is actually able to refuse him anything.


	2. The Trimūrti

Logan’s smug as hell when he slams the piece of paper down on the table in front of Charles.  
It’s a Wakandan marriage certificate.

It says, in elegant cursive lettering, that he and and Kurt are co-husbands to the Hadari Yao of Wakanda. Ororo Munroe. 

In other words, he and Ororo have sole right of attorney over Kurt’s welfare, finances, next of kin. Everything.  
Neither of them are taking any further chances with his safety.  
And it’s a clear sign that we’re all still on notice for our good behaviour.

I repress the urge to wipe the smug look off his face.  
Kurt, standing beside him, flashes Charles an apologetic look. Ororo rolls her eyes heavenwards.  
Ah, how I missed the Logan drama.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, we are, all of us, glad to have the three of them back with us, they’re each irreplaceable and important to us and our community. But we being made aware that we’re are not yet forgiven, we may never be.

They have a new habitat, big enough for three, and they’re domestic arrangements are none of our business either.

****

If you didn’t know him, you’d think that Kurt was fine.  
He looks fine, the scars are hidden by his fur, he looks healthy, embraces everyone, smiles, responds to every question.  
But if you know him well, you can see the cracks in the facade, the slight tremor in his hands, the fragility of his smile, the way he keeps an eye on where Ororo and Logan are, at all times.  
This isn’t our normal Kurt, bright, sharp and bold.  
He’s acting the part very well, I’d expect no less from him, his bravery is never in doubt, but he’s not yet well. You don’t recover from what was essentially a nervous breakdown with the wave of a magic wand. In his favour, the breakdown was brought on by external forces, his mad mother, who is now confined and out of the picture. But still, it will take time for him to fully heal.

Watching him and Jean hug is heartbreaking, they’re both in tears. You don’t realise how much you miss someone until they’re gone, he’s not just a co-worker, not just a teammate, he’s a friend.  
It’s in part my fault, our fault, he was so badly hurt. Logan will never believe it, but we know how wrong we were.

Kurt, even at his sickest, was no trouble at all.  
Logan is trouble enough for both of them  
He can also hold a grudge, for centuries if necessary. He barely looks at any of us, not even Jean.

**** 

Ororo is back on The Quiet Council, her wisdom and insight have been missed, Logan is off rota, Kurt is nowhere near ready yet. Whatever, whatever he wants, whatever he needs. Krakoa owes him.

What he currently wants is answers.

****

Illyana Rasputina downs her drink and puts the glass down on the table with a decisive thunk.  
“No dice?” Rogue looks over at her.  
“It’s not my area.” She shrugs her perfect shoulders, scowls. “Demons, Limbo, sorcery, if I don’t know the answer, I’d at least know who or where to ask. This? This is a completely different area of expertise. It’s old European magic, really old.”  
We’re sitting in my office. Illyana, sister of one of Kurt’s best friends, and demon sorceress to boot, is not used to not knowing.  
”Who’d you suggest?” If she says Margali Szardos...  
“Pete Wisdom?” Not much better. “Sean probably read up on The Morrigan, when Terry was possessed by Her.”  
Rogue, Anna Marie, looks over at me. We’re trying not to involve Sean too deeply, he and his daughter, Teresa, have been through enough without us poking the hornets nest of bad memories.

But Kurt has asked for help. He needs deeper knowledge than a Google search and what Rogue calls ‘woo-woo’; the amateur bullshit on the internet.

Illyana gets up to go. “Morrigan and Mystique is a bad, bad combo, you know that?”  
“We had noticed.”  
She pauses. “We’re sure she’s securely locked away?”  
“Black Tom, Doug and Krakoa all seem to think so.”  
“Good.” She nods and one if her stepping discs starts to form beneath her. “But if he needs my sword, Scott, he has it.”  
“Thanks.”  
And she’s gone.

Kurt has so many friends.

“We’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.” Rogue also stands. Mystique was her foster mother, more of a mother than she ever was to Kurt. This is her business too.  
“And the right tree?”  
She shakes out her auburn curls. “Ahm workin’ with Betsy. I’m guessing the Braddock’s know a thing or two about ‘old European magic’?”  
She might well be right. She’ll speak to Elizabeth, Betsy Braddock, I’ll call Brian. 

****

I approach the habitat gingerly. Really not sure of my welcome. I should have brought Jean or Rogue, Logan is much less murderous with an audience.  
Or have done this by phone or online.  
But, damn it, I’ve every right to be here.

A damn marriage certificate! Honestly. A simple power of attorney would have done.  
I’m adding ’insufferable drama queen’ to the long list of Logan’s annoying features.

I needn’t have worried, Kurt opens the door to me, with a smile. He’s alone.  
He’s clearly well enough to be left unattended by his watchdogs. 

Every surface in the lounge is covered in paper, books, printouts, more books, data crystals.  
All on Celtic mythology. All on old goddesses. All on The Morrigan.  
How far does it go before research becomes obsession?  
But who could blame him?  
He wears Her scars. They were put there for a reason. He needs to know why.

“Tea?” He asks, with his open smile.  
“Sure.” I don’t really like the green tea he and Ororo drink, but it’s a bit too early to raid Logan’s beer stash. I go sit in the lounge. Look out at the view, it’s not quite as spectacular as the one from his old habitat, but I understand why he wouldn’t want to go back there. That’s where She struck. Besides, this place is big enough for three.  
He comes in, carrying the tray, with a graceful sway of the hips, crouches to pour green tea into delicate porcelain cups. When he passes one over, I can just see the scars on his hand, under the fur. Still there. A reminder. Waiting.

“You wanted to see me?”  
“Yeah. Mostly just to see how you are, if you need anything.”  
“I think I’ve got all I need, Trinary has set me up with a fabulous system.” He indicates the computer array. He looks at me, shrewd and clever. “Is this also to threat assess?” He looks at me over the cup. Bright mind, never forget that.  
“Yes, that too.”  
“And if I am? If I am a threat to Krakoa?”  
He doesn’t look like a threat, this slim hipped, graceful acrobat, with strong, shoulders, handsome dark features and soft smile. He could be dangerous, if he wanted to be; he’s phenomenally fast and I’ve seen him teleport part of something. Part of a gun, part of a Sentinel. ‘Port it into a wall, or the floor. He sometimes carries a sword, two swords, razor sharp.  
But he isn’t dangerous. He won’t ‘port part of a living thing. Not because he can’t but because he won’t, it’s not in his nature, to hurt, to kill. Anyone. Not even the bad guys.

“We owe you, Kurt. The Council, Krakoa, all of us. We owed you before you put yourself in harms way to corral Mystique, we owe you for all the years you’ve worked with us. We owe you for keeping us honest.”  
He bows his head, embarrassed; it’s fine to complement him on his physical prowess, particularly the acrobatics, he’s a bit shyer when it’s other things. But it’s true. Charles and Erik and I, we all want him to know. Need him to understand.

“You wouldn’t be the first of us to be a threat, if it goes that way, we’ll deal with it. But we won’t give up on you. Ever.” Jean. Phoenix. These are not empty platitudes, empty words, we do not give up on our own. He knows that.  
He searches my face, with those beautiful gold eyes. Then bows his head.  
“I know. I know, Scott. But I’m scared. I’m scared I might become dangerous too. That I might become like Her.”  
I put the cup down and go and take his wrists, Kurt’s a very tactile person, touch means a lot to him.  
“It might not happen. If it does, we’ll do whatever we can to help.”  
He looks me in the eye, he’s very intense. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”  
“I know.” I know what he’s asking. I draw him into an embrace; Kurt can face anything, anyone, except hurting others.  
“I’m worried that he’s got too close. That he might not be able to. If I need him to.“ I can feel the shadows gathering at the edges of the room. The weight, like thunder in the air. If the very worse happens, he’d rather be dead. Kurt is worried that Logan won’t be able to kill him, if he has to. I don’t want Kurt to have such thoughts, this gentle soul shouldn’t have to worry about such horror. Damn Mystique.  
“It won’t come to that.”  
“You don’t know that, Scott.”  
I sigh into his hair. “No, no I don’t. But we’ll try our best. Always.”  
He nods, leans into me, as he did with Jean. Hungry for the touch.

I give him the slip of paper. He looks down at the name on it. Smiles, a genuine warm, Kurt smile, that’s more like it.  
“Of course, I should have thought of her. The Krakoa gate is in London, isn't it.”  
“Yeah, but Meggan says she’s happy to meet you at the gate and get you there.”  
“Ah, a choice between Meggan or Logan driving?”  
“There are long distance teleporters?”  
The twinkle is back in his eye. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

I pause on the way out of the door.  
“You will come and visit us? Dinner? We miss you. Jean misses you.”  
“I will, we all will.”  
We. They’re a unit now. Stronger together.


	3. The Oracle

“Whee!”  
Ya’ know, I expected to die in some massive, climatic blood bath. Don’t think I’d ever considered meeting my maker in a pink Mini at eighty miles an hour down an English country lane.

Meggan’s little car whistles down winding roads with gay abandon at alarming speeds. Of course, she can’t carry both of us and our (Kurt’s) luggage from London.  
Kurt is in the front with her, lanky thing he is. So I get crammed in the back, next to Maggie’s empty baby seat, the luggage, and a tide of baby wipes, candy wrappers and teddy bears. Every surface is, ever so slightly, sticky.

The roads get narrower and narrower, the villages get more and more picturesque until we reach ultimate twee. Lower Cholmondeley. Church, pub, duckpond, ducks, village green with cricket match.  
Gotta be the murder capital of the country.  
Look at all those twitching lace curtains.

Honeysuckle Cottage is as sweet as it sounds.

She meets us at the door.  
Miss Emelia Witherspoon. Not quite sure what I was expecting, but I am completely unsurprised when she enfolds both my travelling companions to her ample bosom. Plenty of room for two. Blouse, brooch, long tweed skirt. Sensible shoes, obviously.  
I shake her hand. Old school courtesy. I know her type, hair like spun sugar, eyes like twin lasers. They miss nothing, shrewd and alert.

Her sitting room is exactly as expected, wall to wall books, cats, lace doilies, over stuffed sofas and sunlight. 

She sits us down and disappears into the kitchen to make tea. Of course.

****

As planned Meggan bows out. She can fly from here to Braddock Manor in time for Maggie’s dinner. She’ll pick us up tomorrow. She’s a good girl, a perceptive girl. This is not going to be a picnic.

Kurt tells Emelia the whole sorry tale, from our move to an island paradise to Mystique’s murderous attacks on him and her possession by the old, dark power of The Morrigan.  
She listens, nods, tuts occasionally, pats his hand.  
When he gets upset, she passes him an embroidered handkerchief which smells of lavender.

It hurts to listen to him, even though I know the story, I hate seeing him like this.  
He’s getting better. I keep telling myself that.  
Is he?  
She still haunts his dreams, his nightmares. God, the nightmares.

And it’s not over. He knows that. I know that.  
Those scars, twisting up his arm, across his neck, his chest, down his back. 

They are spreading.

It’s not over. It’s only just begun.

*****

We eat dinner, shepherds pie, gravy, apple crumble, custard. More tea. Of course.

Emelia is a clairvoyant, a highly skilled one. The Morrigan isn’t her area of study.  
But she has contacts, across the country, men and women expert in their fields, academics, authors. Not internet experts. Real ones.  
She doesn’t have a computer but she has pen and paper and addresses and phone numbers.  
She also has a reputation, she’s our ‘in’ into the world of the paranormal too.

As the sky outside darkens, Kurt, starts to droop, it’s been a long, emotional, day.  
Emelia only has one spare room, the vast cast iron bed nearly fills it. Kurt assures her we’ll be fine sharing.  
I go up and settle him like an anxious parent. I know I’m smothering him. I can’t turn it off.  
I need him to be safe. A vast orange tabby joins him on the bed, I leave him reading his email on his phone and stroking its head as its formidable rumble fills the room.

No.

No, we’re not lovers. I can see the question in everyone’s eyes. Yes, I sleep in with him, the nightmares are terrible. Yes, I love him. More than I’ve loved any man. Yes, he’s beautiful. Yes, we hug, we touch. We always have. I hope we always will. It helps to ground him. And me.

Hell, now I’ve even gone and damn well married him.

We could. But we don’t. He’s too badly hurt right now. This is not the time or place. He’s wounded, I won’t take advantage of his need for me.  
We might. We might not. That’s for the future. If we have a future. But that’s our business, no one else’s. ‘Cept perhaps ‘Ro. An’ Jeannie.  
  
He needs me. I’ll be here until he doesn’t.  
One way or another.

When I go back downstairs, she’s sat in the chair, stroking another of the cats.  
She looks old, frail. I’m not fooled. She’s tough as old boots.  
A bottle of whisky and two glasses have appeared beside the teapot.  
I sit on the floral chintz sofa and she reaches over and passes me a glass.

“Sorry about that, he’s not been that needy for a while.”  
She waves her hand. “It’s fine, Logan, he’s clearly still unwell. My poor, brave boy.”  
I look down at the amber liquor in the glass.  
“I hate what she’s done to him. What she’s doing to him still.”  
“I know.” Her voice is distant. “And it’s going to get worse before it gets better.” Clairvoyant. Damn. “But we’ll get him through it.”  
“Will we?”  
She lifts her head. “Or die trying.”  
This is not the pep talk I need. “Not helping.” I down the whisky. It’s good stuff, single malt, I should savour it. Damn it.  
She looks at me, over her glass. “You’re his champion, you know the risks. The scars, they’re growing, aren’t they?”  
I nod. “An’ they glow. I thought it was in the moon light and it is, but it’s not just then, it’s when the moon is dark too.”  
“The old moon. That’s when She is at her strongest.”  
“What the hell is she, Emelia? What does she want with him?”  
She pours me another tot. I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.  
“What is She? She’s old, very old. Old dark magic from before we had light and reason. She’s not evil, it’s just that her morals are not human morals. She feeds on his mother’s pain and hate. She’ll feed on him, given half a chance.”  
“How do we stop Her?”  
“I don’t know.” I look up at her. I was kinda expecting her to have all the answers. “I know he’s not safe here.”  
“Here?” I look around the twee cottage with its antimacassars, doilies and grandfather clock, the cats look back at me, eyes glinting indefatigable and unreadable. There’s no threat here.  
“In England. Anywhere in Europe, from the Iberian Peninsula up to and including Scandinavia. They got everywhere.”  
“Who?”  
“The Celts.”  
“Huh?”  
“She is a Celtic deity, and while we now think of the Celtic lands being the fringe, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, parts of Brittany, they used to roam all of Europe and beyond. And so is He.”  
“Huh?” Now she really has lost me. Who’s he?

She stands up, displacing the cat which stalks off, indignant, she crosses the room and I follow, obediently. Her tread is heavy on the stair. She opens the door to the spare bedroom, he’s not on the bed where I left him, he’s stood, naked in the window. The moon is near full, the room is flooded with its blue glow.  
I feel my hackles start to rise.  
Her voice is little more than a dry whisper. “This. This is what he’s becoming.”  
The scars his mother gave him are glowing with that cold blue light. The complex tracery goes up his arm, along his shoulder and neck. But it’s not that which chills me.  
He’s silhouetted by the moonlight and the horns rise from his brow. Not the horns of a demon, this is old, older than Azazel and all his crap, this is old magic, old, old magic.  
These are the curving antlers of a stag.

He’s facing us, his eyes open. They’re not gold, they’re silver too. Cold and empty as the moonlight.

A cloud passes over the moon and they’re gone. He blinks at us, golden eyes back again. “Emelia? Logan?” He’s sleepy and vague. “I was dreaming.”  
”I know, darlin’” I guide him back to the bed, pull the covers back over him. I push the hair off his forehead, his brow is smooth. I stroke his hair as he curls on his side and goes back to sleep. “I’m here, you’re safe.” I look up at Emelia in the doorway, she has her hand to her mouth, her eyes wet with tears.  
It’s a lie. He’s not safe here. Or anywhere. I can’t keep him safe from this.  
What the hell do I do now?  
I need another drink.

****

When I go to bed, couple of hours, and most of that bottle of whisky later, he curls into me.  
As he does. 

I look down at him, gilded by the moonlight.

Those horns. Antlers.

As I drift off into my own light sleep, I realise that seeing the antlers startled me. Disturbed me.  
But it didn’t surprise me.  
It’s as if I’ve always known that they were there.  
Waiting.


	4. The Demons

I am not infallible, I can be wrong. I often am, and I, we, were very wrong in how we treated Kurt. Very wrong and we nearly lost him.

**** 

But there’s one thing I know for certain I am right about; that’s who his parents are.

And that’s thanks to Moira.

She was fascinated by Kurt, even before she met him, when all we had of him was a tatty circus flier. Once he was ours, she picked his genome to pieces and went over it with a fine toothed comb.  
This was not simply intellectual curiosity or morbid fascination; he was the most physically mutated of my students, it was to help her help him.  
She started a blood bank for him, whole blood, platelets, plasma. Most mutants can use normal human blood if they need a transfusion, nothing about Kurt’s body is normal, not even his blood. Which in itself, was a clue.

When he first came to us, he told me that all the Wagner’s had been normal until he came along.  
This was a lie. He didn’t know it, but it was. But Moira and I knew. Just looking at him, before she even began to work on him. We knew.  
There was just too much.  
Too much mutation.  
We suspected, from the onset of our investigation, that he was at the very least a second generation mutant; that one, or more likely both his parents were mutants.

His hands and feet; the thumb and big toe are not in the normal position and the other four digits are fused into two. The big toe is rotated a hundred and eighty degrees, the thumb by ninety.

His skin is blue-black. There are tribes in Africa with such dark pigmentation. But his ethnicity and physiognomy is caucasian.

The fur is a different mutation, it’s cobalt blue, a colour almost unheard of in mammals. Hank McCoy has a secondary mutation on the same gene, meaning his fur is the same colour.

His spine, and several other joints are hypermobile, which leads down to the tail, which is prehensile.

His eyes, pupils, iris and sclera are all yellow, giving them a uniform appearance, unless you are close enough to him to see the slight difference. And they do actually glow. Neither Moira, nor I, have ever been able to find out how, some things defeat even our science. His low light vision is excellent, about fifty percent more sensitive than baseline.

His secondary mutation is his ability to teleport, which manifested while he was prepubescent, about the age of eleven. 

One thing we do know, with absolutely certainly, is that Azazel is not Kurt’s father.  
And we know exactly who Kurt’s parents are.

Raven Darkholme and Irene Adler.

Simple as that. 

We have genetic samples of both of them and Kurt is theirs.  
We have no clue what Raven’s original gender was, she’s a metamorph, and genetically, she is undeniably Kurt’s father.

But, sadly, it’s not that simple.  


There is more to Kurt, more than just a second generation set of mutations.  
The deeper Moira looked, the more we became convinced that this was not just random genetics, this was deliberate.  
Someone had bred a child to look like this.  
To look like something else.  
To look like a demon.  
Someone had a hand in twisting that baby, back when it was a foetus. Twisting it to try and breed a monster.

That tail. It’s just too specific. The mutation to provide a tail has been mapped, by us, but the spade at the tip? That was deliberate. The feet, the way the big toe is moved, the way the other toes are fused to give the illusion of cloven hooves. The pointed ears.  
I wonder why they didn’t add the horns? An odd oversight.

Who?  
Why? 

We don’t know. We can speculate. We have suspicions. But we don’t know.

That child should have been born blue, possibly with fur and with those astonishing eyes. His hands and feet, ears and spine would have followed the normal human pattern. He would still have had the ability to teleport. He’d have still been unique and precious.  
The genetic manipulation.  
Did Mystique know? Did Irene? Was it deliberate on their side? I’d like to think not.  
Given Irene’s age, did they need help to conceive? Did they find a helpful ‘doctor’ to combine egg and sperm and implant it in her? Or in Raven? Did they know what else was being done to their precious child?

We have our suspicions, have had for a very long time.  
He doesn’t look like a demon, he looks very specifically like the human perception of a demon. An old human perception, seen in wood cuts and old books. In carvings in churches and gargoyles.  
One could even date it, back to about the thirteen century.

We’ve met demons. Real demons. And they don’t look anything like Kurt.  
Except one.  
Who was never a demon at all, just a very bad and wicked man. Who wanted to be a demon.

He uses the name Belasco, but before that, he was a mortal man, a thirteenth century alchemist and scientist. A twisted and perverse man who wanted to be immortal, who was willing to steal the souls of others to achieve that goal.  
He has the knowledge. He has the skill.  
We lack the connection to Mystique and Destiny, Raven and Irene.  
But it’s there. I know it is.

Azazel?  
Azazel is a red herring.  
Muddying the waters and obfuscating the truth.  
A game someone is playing. Himself? Belasco? Raven? Some other player  
Unknown.  
I’ve consulted with our good friend Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, and with one of Belasco’s other victims, Illyana Rasputina. We agree. The work on that innocent foetus looks like Belasco’s handiwork, not matter what Azazel and Raven would have us believe.

Whatever, they tried to breed a demon. They failed, spectacularly. Kurt is the gentlest, kindest soul we have.

He will tell you how lucky he was. Abandoned at birth, brought up in a circus where no one cared what he looked like. He was lucky to have been found by such accepting people. A lucky accident

I suspect that’s also a lie.  
His foster mother, Margali Szardos is no more a reliable narrator than Mystique, we don’t know what the connection is between them or why Mystique and Irene felt the need to hid their child away, but it’s there too, somewhere, under the surface. Layers and layers of deceit.

We don’t know how he ended up in rural Bavaria but we do know that the people in the circus did bring him up well.  
Kind, generous people, Romany, German, Italian, Spanish, Moroccan, people from across the world, who’s parents and grandparents had survived the Nazis. Men and women of many colours, many cultures, religions, ethnicities, sexualities, who weren’t scared of a child who looked different.  
They taught him. Not just circus tricks, not just how to be an acrobat, but how to be good and kind and accepting. Generous. Loving. Open. Brave and bold.  
Margali must have had a big part in that, and his foster siblings.  
Margali, and her own children’s story may not have ended well, with black magic, murder and madness, but when she was bringing Kurt up, when she was nurturing him, in his early years, she did a fabulous job, he grew up in a household surrounded by love.

Seldom has a human being had so many cards stacked against them, genetics, family, demons, humans, prejudice, hate and fear, yet somehow he still rises above it. Maybe it’s not hyperbole, maybe he is an angel? We know demons exist, so why not?

****

We were wrong in how we treated him. Now we have to do the right thing and help him with his questions about the scars his mother gave him. What are they, why do they glow? If he wants to know the truth about his parentage, I will give him all of Moira’s notes, I will tell him all we know, he has the right to the truth, no matter how hard. It is his. His heritage.  
We can’t ask Mystique, she’s too dangerous, particularly now she’s possessed by the Morrigan, but if we can help him in any other way, we should, we owe that to him.

****

I may be wrong in acquiescing to Moira’s demand not to reincarnate Irene Adler. 

Irene is not just a precognitive, who murdered her in a previous life.

She is also Raven’s wife.  
And Kurt’s biological mother.  
And Anna Marie’s adoptive mother.  
And a person, in her own right.  
Who deserves Krakoa and Krakoan forgiveness for past sins.


	5. Becoming

If you can’t go around something.  
If you can’t go back.  
Sometimes the only way is forward.

I have a list of names.  
Take your pick.  
Kurt Szardos  
Kurt Wagner  
Kurt Darkholme-Adler  
The Incredible Nightcrawler  
Kurt Howlett-Munroe (no, I wasn’t expecting that one either)

They’re nothing compared to the list of His names.  
Herne  
Cernunnos  
Kernunno  
Conall Cernach   
Atho  
Brân  
The Green Man  
The Green King  
Jack o’ th’ Green  
Herian  
Cocidius  
Orion  
Ammon  
Silvanus  
Callirius  
Dionysus  
Pan  
The Devil...

Would you like me to go on?  
Or into his modern neopagan origins? The Greek-Roman route? Celtic? Anglo-Saxon? Indo-European? Or we can delve into the Jungian analysis? Or the Freudian theory of what horny really means (clue, it’s not er, hard. Well, yes it is)? 

I’ve spoken to scholars, academics, teachers, magicians, sorcerers, witches.  
I’ve read books, dissertations, hell, even Wikipedia. I could write a book. The book.

Neopagans have him as the consort of the triple goddess, the Mother, Maiden and Crone.  
Which leads us to The Morrigan, bloody Irish Celtic goddess of battlefields and death.

I could go on, round and round in ever decreasing circles like Ouroboros, eating my own tail.  
My head hurts.  
My soul hurts.

I had a long conversation with Charles yesterday. About my parents. My mother. Mothers.  
About the generic engineering too. Poor little Kurt, the cards were stacked against you even before you were born, weren’t they?  


Whenever I go out, they’re there. Watching me, waiting for me.  
Sometimes Gloriana. Sometimes Fauna, Nature Girl, Rictor, Black Tom, Pixie. Others whose names I don’t know. Those whose mutant powers link them to the earth or to nature, to living, growing things.  
They know.  
They know I’m changing, they know He is in me.

Ororo knows. She doesn’t know that she knows. But she does.

Yesterday, she came in and enfolded me in her arms. I buried my head against her, in her warmth.  
Her kindness knows no bounds. Our love is a tiny flame of hope between us.  
Look after him for me. Protect him for me.  
From me.  
Don’t let this be his undoing.

  
****

I sit at my desk and run my rosary through my fingers.  
There was a time when I received comfort from it. From the ritual of preyer.  
From the warmth of my belief.  
It’s just cheap base metal and glass beads. Some of the links are green with verdigris.  
Of no great value.  
I slide it into an envelope, write his name on the outside.

I do not want this, this poisoned chalice.  
But I have no choice.  
I can’t leave Her in Krakoa. The ancient darkness which is now my Mother.  
Her corruption, her evil, will soak into the water table, into the green and growing foundations of our new nation. I spoke with Doug yesterday too. And Tom. They can feel her malign influence growing.

The sun is gone.  
A full moon rising.

I leave the envelope on his pillow. He’s snoring. He say’s he doesn’t, but he does.  
I daren’t kiss him goodbye, I dare not wake him.

When I leave the habitat they follow me, follow me down the hill towards the transit hub, silent witnesses, some on two legs some on four, some on the wing. There’s more than I expected, more than I realised.

Tom is waiting for me. Black Tom.  


I know where I have to go.  
I know what I have to do.  
I know what I am becoming.

Sometimes the only way is forward.


	6. The Hunter

I wake with a start. Crap, I’m gettin’ old.  
Old as sin.  
There’s an envelope on the pillow.  
The beads and chain fall into my hand. Rosary. His. Cold. Dead metal.

His scent is still fresh.

He was here, minutes ago.

He’s only just ahead of me. 

Minutes. 

I don’t have minutes.

Where’s ‘Ro? I need her, need her wings.

Fresh scent.  
Not just him, Meggan, Lin, Julio and others. Dozens of others.  
The trail is easy to follow, even at a full run.  
And I’m damn well running, down from our habitat, down, down, down.

I’m fast, but I’m not going to be fast enough.  
Damn it, Ororo, where are you?  
**Jeannie?**  
I can feel her, in my mind, but she’s busy, concentrating on something else. Hard. No help there, damn it.

He’s not hiding his scent. He’s not ‘porting. I’m gaining on him. Vines tangle my feet. Again, and again. Slowing me.  
“Damn it. No,”  
The moon is huge, gold. The colour of his eyes. 

Where the hell?

The transit hub. Why there? Where the hell is he going?

They’re all there, horns, leaves, wings, fur, feathers, the wild ones, the ones who smell of earth, loam, green skin, brown, gold. Blue.  
He’s unique.  
In so many ways.  
He’s the colour of the evening sky, just after sunset, that deep, impossible cerulean blue which seems to go on into eternity.

He’s standing before the gateway, Black Tom Cassidy is beside him, and, at their feet is a ball of vines, slimy, stinking black vines, as cold and dark as her wicked heart. She’s in there, I know She is.  
The moon is over the gate. The full moon. Which gate? I know that gate.

It’s the gate to the Luna habitat.

I’m too far away. “Kurt! Kurt! Elf!”  
He looks up, straight into my eyes. His face is bleak, set in hard lines of pain, determination, resolve. He’s too far away from me, the vines try to tangle my feet again, Krakoa is working against me. “No!”

He keeps eye contact. He mouths “Sorry.”  
His hand reaches out and touches the Luna Gate.

Luna. 

The gate to the Luna Habitat.

The Moon.

The power flows into him, like water.  
Cold blue moonlight.

The complex silver ribbons of scars glow with it, spreading across his chest, down his arm, chest, groin, legs. Neck. Face. Horns.

Not the ghostly memory I saw in England. But real, solid, deadly, crowning his brow. The twelve tined antlers of the stag.  
His eyes are still on me, silver now, cold and empty and ancient.

The mutants here, here to witness, the wild ones, the earthly ones, the elementals and the fey, they know Him, know what He is, they fall to one knee.

Black Tom touches the bundle of black vines and they fall apart and She is within. In all her dark glory, her black crows wings folded about her. They smell of rot, corruption, carrion and old blood.  
She opens her eyes and smiles.

Kurt, or what ever this thing is, which has commandeered his body, picks her up, the antlers gleam as he bends. He pinions her wings, binding them, as you would with a bird, evil, black wings. She screeches with fury. He walks away from the Moon Gate, Tom and his audience fall back before Him.  
  
I stagger forward. Stumble at his feet. Look up. Up into that face. A strangers face, cold silver eyes, cold blue light. The vicious curve of the antlers, tines sharp as razors.

And I’m scared.  
Scared of him.  
I’ve never been scared of Kurt. Ever.  
Cold empty eyes.

The black screeching thing in his hands.

He turns from me and heads towards a gate at a run. 

And they’re gone.

The warm tropical dark returns. Night insects chirp and buzz.

But he’s gone. Perhaps forever. And he’s taken a piece of my soul with him.  
I sit on my knees in the warm soft loam and tears run down my cheeks, I don’t care who sees me, his rosary still in my hand.

The moon looks down. Cold, old and uncaring for mortal grief.


	7. The Phoenix

It’s really not that difficult.

Anna Marie, Rogue takes their powers. Each of them. All five. They won’t remember, they won’t come to any harm.  
Ororo steals the DNA from Bar Sinister.  
I borrow one of the spare Cerebro helmets.  
We bring her back.

Okay, that may be over simplifying it. That’s an awful lot of power for Rogue to channel. But she does it. She determined. She has good reason to be doing this.

Bar Sinister is not exactly easy to get into. But Ororo was a thief before she was a goddess, she very good at it.

I have the easy task. No one, least of all Charles, expects me to betray him like this.

And really, we don’t have a choice. Doug and Tom have told us; Mystique is festering, like a cancer within Krakoa, she has to be cut out. Removed.

Kurt.  
Kurt is changing, becoming, becoming something else. I, more than anyone, know what that feels like. What it feels like to lose yourself in the godhead. Anything I can do to help him. Anything, even if I have to break all the rules. I’ll face the consequences.  
He’s my friend, my gentle, kind friend. He doesn’t deserve any of the pain and fear he’s suffered.  
Will suffer.

We incubate the egg in Ororo’s garden. For two days.  
Quiet, beautiful, secluded.

Irene.

She is Raven’s wife.  
Kurt’s biological mother.  
Anna Marie’s adoptive mother.

We need her.

****

Anna Marie holds her, sobbing like a little girl with the simple joy of having her mother back.

Ororo and I stand back, give them some privacy. There’s going to be hell to pay, when this get out. Later. We’ll worry about that later, let Irene and Rogue have their moment together. Their moment of rebirth and happiness.

Logan tried to contact me, while I was working Cerebro. I’d better check what he wanted me for. It was important.

Overhead, the full moon looks kindly down on us. She knows all our secrets. But says nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh.  
> This really isn’t going to make sense without reading story one, Family Matters.  
> It will conclude in a third story. Yes, I do know the ending.
> 
> For the confused, blame current X-Men canon.  
> In brief, all of mutant-kind has moved to a sentient tropical island.  
> They have the capacity to resurrect the dead.  
> They’re living in communal habitats, including one tenanted by the Grey-Summers clan on the moon.  
> Look, go read HoX/PoX/Dawn of X, it’s very good but what I’m doing to the characters is nowhere near as weird as current canon.


End file.
